Unexpected Consequences, or, Rescue:Rewind:Repeat
by m-erechyn
Summary: “It’sss bad news, Aziraphale. They’re remembering.” An innocent action after the Armageddon has an unwanted effect. Featuring the full cast of mortals, a few immortals, and DEATH. Aziraphale/Crowley if you squint, Anathema/Newt because it's canon.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: _Good Omens _and all the wonderful beings within do not belong to me. They belong to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, or vice versa... depends on which version of the cover you're looking at. No profit is being made, alas, I'm just having fun. 

_A/N: This is my first Good Omens fic (unless you count the drabbles). There are several switches in POV, as in the book, and I've broken the whole thing up into chapters for your convenience. I've used miles and other American-isms, so bear with me please? This has also only been proofread by me, so I apologize for any daft spelling errors, etc._

Rated T for language, but it's really more of a K . It's rather long as a whole, but the chapters are short.

Any and all feedback will be very much appreciated. Thanks for reading!

* * *

The telephone rang just as Crowley walked past it. He was fairly certain that sort of thing wasn't supposed to happen with pay phones, and with a furtive look at the machine, quickened his pace. It couldn't possibly be a good thing. The phone rang louder as he walked away, and a glare at the booth had no effect. Crowley sighed, and strode back before the ringing could deafen any passing humans. He pushed his sunglasses further up his nose, and picked up the receiver, steeling himself.

"HELLO, CROWLEY." Crowley tried his best not to shudder. The buzzing, raspy voice was even worse than normal over the bad connection. Bloody pay phones. Static fizzled into his ears.

"Uh. Hi." He fidgeted. The first melodious strains of a migraine were crawling across his brain. Some serious stress was in order. Unfortunately.

"WE'VE GOT SOME NEWS FOR YOU, CROWLEY."

"Really." The sarcasm was ill-disguised. The demon giving the message on the other side of the line was evidently dull enough to not notice, and continued.

"YES. IT'S VERY IMPORTANT NEWS, CROWLEY." Of course. News from Down There was always Very Important. Especially after the failed Armageddon, when there were so many loose ends to tie up. Or hack off entirely. Whatever was faster.

"This news wouldn't have anything to do with uh, the events of recent days, would it?" Crowley was hoping against hope. Not that that was something demons usually did, hope—normally they just swapped sides and pretended nothing of the sort ever happened—but Crowley had picked it up from Aziraphale. Six thousand years and an Arrangement with a blessed _angel_ can do that to a bloke.

"IT WOULD, ACTUALLY." There was a pause. Evidently Crowley was supposed to fill in a blank. The buzz grew into a roar. Crowley glared at the cracked glass of the phone booth. It rippled once and was whole once more, although slightly startled. It'd been cracked for quite a few years now and hadn't been expecting repairs, especially not ones from a strange man-shaped creature wearing sunglasses in the dark.

"Er. What is it?" Crowley fervently hoped it didn't necessitate a return to Lower Tadfield. Adam—the Antichrist—had been nice enough, but still the most unsettling creature Crowley had ever met. The boy could destroy Crowley without even blinking. He could probably destroy the entire planet without blinking. It was a good job he was on Their Side. Their Side meaning Crowley and Aziraphale and not much else, save all of humanity. And humanity was generally pretty useless, all things considered.

"THEY ARE REMEMBERING, CROWLEY." Shit. He knew exactly who 'they' were. And 'they' meant Lower Tadfield. And Lower Tadfield meant Adam Young. _Fuck._

"DO YOU KNOW WHY?" Bugger if he knew. "WRONG ANSWER, CROWLEY." Now they were pulling the mind-reading trick on him. "YES, WE ARE."

Crowley blessed under his breath. "Ssso." He was hissing again. Dammit. "I guessss you want me to check it out, then."

"EXACTLY, CROWLEY." The details were dropped directly into his brain. Crowley shuddered, blessed again, swore aloud for good measure, and hung up the receiver. Then he pulled out his ridiculously sleek mobile phone, which he'd chosen mainly because it was called 'Serpent' in the advert, and rang Aziraphale.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: _Good Omens _and all the wonderful beings within do not belong to me. They belong to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, or vice versa... depends on which version of the cover you're looking at. No profit is being made, alas, I'm just having fun.

_A/N: This is my first Good Omens fic (unless you count the drabbles). There are several switches in POV, as in the book, and I've broken the whole thing up into chapters for your convenience. I've used miles and other American-isms, so bear with me please? This has also only been proofread by me, so I apologize for any daft spelling errors, etc._

Rated T for language, but it's really more of a K .

Any and all feedback will be very much appreciated. Thanks for reading!

* * *

Anathema looked over at Newt. "Sorry?" Newt's eyes were wide and slightly unfocused. Although he wasn't wearing his glasses, so he could be forgiven the mad appearance. However, the rambling was a tad stranger than normal.

"There was a man with sunglasses," Newt was saying quickly. He waved his hand, which was regrettably occupied with a wineglass, and sloshed a good amount of liquor onto the nonexistent carpet. "With a tire iron. And wings. And a poofy bloke in tartan. He had wings, too, and this bloody brilliant sword. Flamed like anything."

Anathema was momentarily at a loss, which was a rather rare occurrence, and therefore meant that Something Strange was happening.

"I think you've had enough of _this_ for now," she told Newt, briskly. Anathema took the glass of wine away—the bottle had been a gift from two gentlemen she didn't quite remember for some reason, except they'd visited a few days (weeks?) ago to check on something that she didn't quite remember, either. But that was beside the point. Newt couldn't hold his alcohol. She should've known.

"No, no," Newt babbled. He fumbled for his glasses and slipped them on. "I _remember_."

"Remember what?" Anathema was intrigued, now. There was a blank in her memory that she wasn't aware existed, and she was beginning to realize this. Newt didn't look nearly as mad with his specs back on and his eyes re-focused, she thought. That was good. It wouldn't do to live with a madman, even if it were just in appearance.

"I remember what happened." He was being disappointingly vague.

"Yes. When?" She actually didn't know what night he was talking about. But that was because she couldn't remember it yet. Or, to phrase things better (but more confusingly), she hadn't un-forgotten it yet.

"That night," Newt said helpfully. Anathema sighed.

"Which night?" she asked, testily. She was curious. The edge of recollection was within her grasp, just barely. The alcohol was beginning to give her a headache.

Newton Pulsifer blinked for a moment. He shook his head, dark, plaster-speckled hair flopping. Memory raced away, laughing at the two of them. Newt took the glass of wine back from Anathema and sniffed it, then gulped it down.

"I forgot."

Anathema exhaled loudly. Newt misread her exasperated expression for one of anguish, and wrapped her in his arms. "There, there," he said awkwardly, patting her back. Newt wasn't sure why she was acting so strangely, but figured physical contact was in order. He didn't mind. Anathema groaned and put her hands on his shoulders to push him away, but he misinterpreted that action, too.

Though it wasn't really so bad, Anathema thought, as she tilted her attractive face up to meet his clumsy kisses.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: _Good Omens _and all the wonderful beings within do not belong to me. They belong to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, or vice versa... depends on which version of the cover you're looking at. No profit is being made, alas, I'm just having fun.

_A/N: This is my first Good Omens fic (unless you count the drabbles). There are several switches in POV, as in the book, and I've broken the whole thing up into chapters for your convenience. I've used miles and other American-isms, so bear with me please? This has also only been proofread by me, so I apologize for any daft spelling errors, etc._

Rated T for language, but it's really more of a K .

Any and all feedback will be very much appreciated. Thanks for reading!

* * *

Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell (retired) had not eaten dinner yet. "Oy, wumman!" He paused. "Where's my dinner at?" There was no response. Shadwell banged on the wall a few times for good measure, and glowered at the stuffed animals that surrounded him. It was no use avoiding them. They were _everywhere_.

They—Shadwell and Madame Tracy, of course—had ended up getting a bungalow, and called it Shangri-Laurels as a sort of compromise between Shangri-La and the Laurels. Madame Tracy had insisted on bringing every single unfortunately named, glassy-eyed stuffed animal with them when they moved. She'd brought the crystal ball, too. Out of habit. She liked to have a bit of the occult around.

Shadwell had brought the entire Witchfinder Library (Madame Tracy had forbidden the presence of any shrunken heads, though, so those went to the pawn shop), three silver bullets (just in case) and a vast amount of condensed milk. The two got along quite well, albeit a bit blearily. Memory wasn't what it used to be, these days.

Shadwell grunted. Women. Useless, the lot of them. Almost as bad as those southern pansies. He gave a particularly sickening teddy bear one last withering look, and heaved himself out of the overstuffed chair. He made his way through the plush carpet and cautiously knocked on the door that led to the kitchen-and-dining-room.

"Jezebel!" No response. Shadwell grew nervous, as much as he could be nervous. Which was really more irritation and less anxiety than is typical, but so be it. Shadwell was a stoic fellow.

He turned the handle—the door was unlocked, a good enough sign—and walked in, brandishing his index finger. He wasn't sure why, really, but he vaguely remembered doing it before in a time of dire need, and it had worked well enough. Although he hadn't got a bell, book, or candle now (and he didn't know that he needed one, either). But it was a false alarm.

Madame Tracy was merely sitting at the kitchen table, peering very intently into her crystal ball. She looked up at Shadwell as he tromped in, and giggled, embarrassed.

"Oh, _hello_ Mister S. Do have a seat." She tittered again and stared into the oversized gem that was more than likely just really cheap glass. Shadwell frowned.

"It's dinner time," he said. Just a reminder. Madame Tracy coughed.

"Just a moment, Mister S. I'm _rather_ busy." Shadwell was confused. There were no séances anymore. Madame Tracy was just a name; the occult was as far away as could be. And besides, you couldn't have a séance with just one person. Every Witchfinder (retired) worth his (or its, in the case of Witchfinder Privates Carpet, Table, and Cigarette Lighter) salt knew that.

Shadwell shook his head, turned, and rummaged around in the pantry for a tin of condensed milk. Behind him, Madame Tracy's eyes widened with recognition.

"I remember," she breathed. Her high voice was tinged with amazement. She turned from the crystal ball and stared at Shadwell. "How could I have forgotten?"

"Eh?" Taking a good swig of the sugary goop, Shadwell raised a bushy brow. "Ye remembered dinner?" Madame Tracy giggled again.

"No, Mister S, you old silly. I remembered what happened, that night. A few weeks ago." Shadwell raised the eyebrow even higher. "It was the Armageddon," Madame Tracy said thoughtfully. Shadwell snorted on his condensed milk.

"Weel," he managed. "That's all reet, then." They were still alive, at least. So it can't have been that bad. But _he_ was hungry. "Canna we have dinner now?" he added hopefully. Madame Tracy nodded. She got up and began puttering round the kitchen, as if nothing had happened. Perhaps she thought she'd just had a bit too much to drink.

"Liver?" she asked. Shadwell grunted assent. Shangri-Laurels. It was paradise, indeed.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: _Good Omens _and all the wonderful beings within do not belong to me. They belong to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, or vice versa... depends on which version of the cover you're looking at. No profit is being made, alas, I'm just having fun.

_A/N: This is my first Good Omens fic (unless you count the drabbles). There are several switches in POV, as in the book, and I've broken the whole thing up into chapters for your convenience. I've used miles and other American-isms, so bear with me please? This has also only been proofread by me, so I apologize for any daft spelling errors, etc._

Rated T for language, but it's really more of a K .

Any and all feedback will be very much appreciated. Thanks for reading!

* * *

Pippin Galadriel Moonchild woke up, sweating. She'd been unusually sleepy these past few weeks, as her mind struggled to recover from stresses it hadn't known it'd faced. It was only eight o'clock and she was dead tired. But this time it was different. She'd had a nightmare.

Adam had been in it. And Wensley, and Brian, and Dog. But it wasn't _exactly_ a nightmare, because there had been some rather good bits in it. She vaguely remembered—that was it, she remembered—a sword, and a woman with hair like fiery copper wires, and a slithering white man who melted into darkness. But they'd defeated them. Sent them away. And there was Death. She had seen Death. Pepper shook.

But that hadn't been the worst part. _Adam_ had been the worst part, what made it a nightmare and not just a rather adventurous dream. His sharp eyes had gone blank, scary and strange. The weather had screamed, the world had twisted on its axis, and _Adam had been behind it all._ He controlled it. He started it and he stopped it, before it was too late. Adam.

Pepper pulled on her socks and shoes and raced downstairs. Eight o'clock. Her parents wouldn't be able to catch her for another half hour. She grabbed her bike and pedaled out onto the drive, loose cardboard clacking furiously. Adam would know what was going on.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: _Good Omens _and all the wonderful beings within do not belong to me. They belong to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, or vice versa... depends on which version of the cover you're looking at. No profit is being made, alas, I'm just having fun.

_A/N: This is my first Good Omens fic (unless you count the drabbles). There are several switches in POV, as in the book, and I've broken the whole thing up into chapters for your convenience. I've used miles and other American-isms, so bear with me please? This has also only been proofread by me, so I apologize for any daft spelling errors, etc._

Rated T for language, but it's really more of a K .

Any and all feedback will be very much appreciated. Thanks for reading!

* * *

Aziraphale finally found the phone after twenty-seven rings. It had been under a pile of rare first edition comics of _Biggles Goes to Mars_. "Hello?" He didn't get much business these days, of course, but there was always the slightest chance that it might not be Crowley on the other end of the line.

"Angel." Er. There went that idea. He stared at the price guide in his hand and wondered what Crowley wanted. It was too late for dinner, and they'd already met earlier today. They'd gotten quite drunk, too, if Aziraphale remembered properly. And he did. Not much could be said for his organization, but Aziraphale's memory (when he wanted it to be) was flawless.

"Hello, Crowley."

"It'sss bad news, Aziraphale. They're remembering." Crowley was hissing; not a good sign. Aziraphale shelved the price guide. He knew who 'they' were, too. And he and Crowley would need to go to Lower Tadfield, immediately.

"Oh, dear," he managed.

"I know," Crowley shot back. He didn't sound as sarcastic as he should have. He sounded panicky, nervous.

"Where are you?" the angel asked. There was the sound of bells jangling up front, and Aziraphale knew he shouldn't have.

"Right here," Crowley replied, suddenly next to him and over the phone as well. He slid the phone shut (there was a faint click in Aziraphale's ear) and suddenly it was gone, slipped into the pocket of his dark jacket.

"We've got to go," Aziraphale said. Crowley nodded, and took off his sunglasses. He looked tired. Aziraphale privately thought he could use a cup of tea, but now was not the time. He settled for placing a reassuring, plump hand on Crowley's shoulder. On the bright side, the demon didn't shy away from the touch.

"Why haven't your people said anything yet?"

Aziraphale shrugged. "I'm sure I'll be getting a message sometime soon." But he wasn't sure. Something was up with the Antichrist. Possibly something was Up as well. Heaven tended to meddle in things that really didn't need messing with.

Crowley looked unconvinced, but didn't press the matter further. Most likely he was thinking the same things as Aziraphale. There was no way Hell wanted people remembering; that's why they'd rung him. But Heaven might, in some warped way, think it was the Right Thing To Do. He gestured to the angel.

"Come on. The Bentley's outside." Aziraphale dithered, hoping against hope (something angels did quite a lot, actually) that the Metatron would appear and give him a reassuring message—something like 'yes, we did this, but we've seen the error of our ways and we're going to reverse it immediately'—but that didn't happen. What happened was that Aziraphale nodded, and followed Crowley to the front of the shop, where the demon snapped his fingers suddenly.

"Wait." Crowley looked preoccupied.

"Yes?"

"Do you have a decent tape? All of mine have er, changed…" Aziraphale smiled.

"All you had to do was ask, dear boy."

The Bentley was indeed outside (and not on the curb, as Aziraphale had feared). Aziraphale opened both doors before Crowley could get to them, and settled into the car. He put the tape into the cassette player as Crowley slid inside. There was a faint smell of charred leather interior hanging in the air.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale asked, sniffing delicately.

"Yeah?"

"Do you smell that?" Crowley frowned and, to Aziraphale's slight distaste, stuck out his tongue, which was for a brief moment no longer pink and human, but forked and serpentine.

"Bugger."


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: _Good Omens _and all the wonderful beings within do not belong to me. They belong to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, or vice versa... depends on which version of the cover you're looking at. No profit is being made, alas, I'm just having fun.

_A/N: This is my first Good Omens fic (unless you count the drabbles). There are several switches in POV, as in the book, and I've broken the whole thing up into chapters for your convenience. I've used miles and other American-isms, so bear with me please? This has also only been proofread by me, so I apologize for any daft spelling errors, etc._

Rated T for language, but it's really more of a K .

Any and all feedback will be very much appreciated. Thanks for reading!

* * *

Adam sat cross-legged on the covers of his bed, reading the latest issue of _New Aquarian_. He was marvelously happy. He was free of responsibilities, or, rather, the responsibilities he'd rather not take care of. It was quite nice.

- - - - - -

Pepper biked at high speed, down the paths and badly paved streets of Lower Tadfield. It began to rain. It shouldn't have, it wasn't normal for this time of year, but it did. It wasn't even a proper rainfall, just an irritating, wet, drizzle. Adam would not have approved, if he'd been there… or if he'd caused it.

- - - - - -

Anathema Device, Witch, and Newton Pulsifer, Witchfinder (semi retired), were blissfully oblivious. All thoughts of memories lost and memories regained had fled both their minds, as hearts beat faster (much to Anathema's shame and Newt's delight) and plaster rained down on them both. The bottle of wine Aziraphale and Crowley had given to them was sitting on the table, nearly empty. Neither of them could hold their alcohol, it turned out, but that was all right.

Outside, the Wasabi developed a layer of rust that used to be there and for the past few weeks, had been absent. It muttered, "prease-to-fasten-sleat-bert" and was silent. Newt would have been saddened by the change, had he been there and with the presence of mind to notice. At the moment, he wasn't really noticing anything, save the very attractive Anathema.

She kissed him on the corner of the mouth as a large piece of plaster fell onto his head.

"Ow," Newt mumbled against her lips, and then laughed. "S'like snow," he tried to say. Anathema smiled. The hole in her memory remained where it was. For now.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: _Good Omens _and all the wonderful beings within do not belong to me. They belong to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, or vice versa... depends on which version of the cover you're looking at. No profit is being made, alas, I'm just having fun.

_A/N: This is my first Good Omens fic (unless you count the drabbles). There are several switches in POV, as in the book, and I've broken the whole thing up into chapters for your convenience. I've used miles and other American-isms, so bear with me please? This has also only been proofread by me, so I apologize for any daft spelling errors, etc._

Rated T for language, but it's really more of a K .

Any and all feedback will be very much appreciated. Thanks for reading!

* * *

The two man-shaped creatures sat in stunned silence. 

"Crowley," Aziraphale began. Things were _changing back_. This wasn't just Heaven meddling with memories. This was the Antichrist. Doing… well, unfathomable things.

"What do you think he's doing?" Crowley asked, mirroring Aziraphale's thoughts. The Bentley sped down the suddenly smooth country roads at the even speed of 110 mph. Crowley's hands weren't anywhere close to the wheel.

Aziraphale sighed. "I don't know." It was always hard to predict massively powerful beings, and this massively powerful being in question also happened to be an eleven year old boy. This, of course, made things doubly unpredictable.

"We can only hope he hasn't decided to give up his powers," Crowley muttered darkly. Aziraphale didn't even want to think about that possibility. If the Antichrist was no longer the Antichrist, and all these things were un-un-happening, then it'd be He—Hea—_impossible_ to get things back to any semblance of normality.

"I do hope that Young boy knows what he's getting into," Aziraphale murmured. He gazed out the window at the blurred countryside. Crowley was doing about 120 on the winding roads. "My dear," he said, glancing over at the demon, "do slow down."

Crowley scowled and willed the car to go faster. The needle on the speedometer crept towards one-fifty. Behind them the engine of a delivery truck developed a very interesting mechanical failure. Aziraphale shook his head at Crowley—earning him a guilty smirk—and fixed the problem with a wave of his hand.

The back seat of the Bentley began to smoke.

Miles away, in Soho, a rare book shop quietly burst into flame. Without the flames, that is. It simply re-burned down. Millions of dollars' worth of books crumbled into ashes. Again.

Aziraphale shivered, and glanced at Crowley. The demon gave him what was meant to be a reassuring grin, but was wholly unconvincing. Aziraphale could almost feel his books turning into dust. He willed the Bentley to go faster, with no small amount of guilt. Those poor drivers on the other side of the road wouldn't know what hit them.

Crowley noticed the increase in speed, and gave Aziraphale a tiny, tight smile. Aziraphale smiled back. It was all they had, right now.


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: _Good Omens _and all the wonderful beings within do not belong to me. They belong to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, or vice versa... depends on which version of the cover you're looking at. No profit is being made, alas, I'm just having fun.

_A/N: This is my first Good Omens fic (unless you count the drabbles). There are several switches in POV, as in the book, and I've broken the whole thing up into chapters for your convenience. I've used miles and other American-isms, so bear with me please? This has also only been proofread by me, so I apologize for any daft spelling errors, etc._

Rated T for language, but it's really more of a K .

Any and all feedback will be very much appreciated. Thanks for reading!

* * *

Shadwell rolled himself a cigarette. Madame Tracy, over in the next room, tut-tutted and made herself a cup of tea, steeping the leaves for exactly five minutes. Just the way she liked it. The smell of Earl Grey filled the room.

Her newfound memories hadn't really bothered her. At the time, she'd chalked up them to merely a rather unpleasant occult experience; more like a dream than an actual event. And, well, they were both alive, weren't they? She'd just had a bit too much to drink.

Madame Tracy sipped her tea and thought wistfully of dashing young men with pure white wings. She'd forgotten the more disturbing events of that night as soon as she re-remembered them. For example, she'd completely banished the appearance of the demons and the Metatron from her mind, and she also seemed to think that Aziraphale's possession of her body was just something to do with technology and microphones. Madame Tracy was very good at explaining away unpleasant events. It helped that she drank an awful lot of sherry, too.

Just as well. Adam didn't like causing people undue trauma, even though at the moment he wasn't actually aware that he was doing much of anything.

Memory wasn't what it used to be, these days. It _was_ nice to have Shadwell around, even if he was a bit of a grump.

"Mister S?" Madame Tracy called out.

"Aye, ye harlot?"

"Just checking you were all right," she replied, reassured. Madame Tracy added a bit more sugar to her tea and wondered if that fascinating young boy, the beautiful blond one, would ever visit. Quite a charmer, that Young boy.


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: _Good Omens _and all the wonderful beings within do not belong to me. They belong to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, or vice versa... depends on which version of the cover you're looking at. No profit is being made, alas, I'm just having fun.

_A/N: This is my first Good Omens fic (unless you count the drabbles). There are several switches in POV, as in the book, and I've broken the whole thing up into chapters for your convenience. I've used miles and other American-isms, so bear with me please? This has also only been proofread by me, so I apologize for any daft spelling errors, etc._

Rated T for language, but it's really more of a K .

Any and all feedback will be very much appreciated. Thanks for reading!

* * *

The light was on in the window Pepper knew belonged to Adam. She thought briefly of rushing in, and decided not to anger Mr. Young any more than she had to. So she waited outside the house, patiently. Adam always seemed to know when one of Them was coming to visit.

It had been seven minutes, and Adam had not appeared. Pepper shifted in the cold, uncomfortable. It was very wet. It hadn't rained like this in Tadfield for _years_.

Exactly eleven years, to be precise.

Pepper gave up waiting. She carefully parked her bike next to the Young's garage, and then rang the doorbell three times. Just in case. Mr. Young answered the door, looking perplexed.

"It's late," he said. "You should be at home," he continued awkwardly. He wasn't quite sure what to say to his son's underage and decidedly female friend, who seemed to want in. Pepper saved him the trouble of saying much more by rushing in and hurrying up the stairs, tracking mud across the floor. "Hey," Mr. Young said, half-heartedly.

"I've gotta talk t' Adam," Pepper apologetically called over her shoulder. "S'important," she added. That should take care of it, she thought. Mr. Young sighed and closed the door. Absolutely incorrigible, the lot of Them.

Adam was sitting in his room, still reading back issues of _New Aquarian_. He looked up when Pepper hurtled in, wet and disheveled and breathless.

"Hullo, Pep," he said by way of greeting. Pepper's mouth dropped open. How could Adam be so normal at a time like this? The images from her nightmare surged into her mind. She had held a sword of twigs and twine, and taken down War itself…

"Adam, _what's going on?_" she wailed.

His presence wasn't as… big as it used to be. He seemed smaller. Something was missing. But Pepper didn't notice any of this. She was only human, after all.

"What d'you mean?" he replied, looking almost genuinely confused. "You're all wet," he added. Pepper was indeed very wet. A small puddle of completely natural water was forming on Adam's bedroom floor.

"I waited outside," Pepper said accusingly. "I thought you would come out." Adam always came out, before this. Even during thunderstorms, like when Brian lost his cat during that really big storm last year and came to Adam for help. Adam had insisted everyone go look for it.

"Sorry," Adam said. He gave her a lopsided smile. "Now, what'd you ask?"

"What's goin' on, Adam?" Pepper repeated.

"Depends on what's hap'ning," Adam replied. He patted an empty space on his bed and Pepper clambered up to sit next to him, vaguely aware that this was bringing them into New and Dangerous Territory.

"Jus' tell me what happened,' Adam said, and though his voice lacked the oomph of the Antichrist, Pepper told him anyway.


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: _Good Omens _and all the wonderful beings within do not belong to me. They belong to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, or vice versa... depends on which version of the cover you're looking at. No profit is being made, alas, I'm just having fun.

_A/N: This is my first Good Omens fic (unless you count the drabbles). There are several switches in POV, as in the book, and I've broken the whole thing up into chapters for your convenience. I've used miles and other American-isms, so bear with me please? This has also only been proofread by me, so I apologize for any daft spelling errors, etc._

Rated T for language, but it's really more of a K .

Any and all feedback will be very much appreciated. Thanks for reading!

* * *

A few streets down, Brian and Wensleydale were locked in an intense videogame battle. Normally Adam would be with them, but he'd begged off today, saying he should probably get some reading done, plus he was kind of tired. Wensley thought Adam had looked a little different—smaller, like he was missing something—but he didn't mention it to the other boy.

Brian's character hammered Wensley's with a Technicolor blast attack. "Gotcha," he said happily. For a moment, a brief, unbidden image of a man in white passed over his thoughts, but it was gone as quickly as it had come. Brian scratched his head thoughtfully. He was certain he'd seen that man before, and he had _oozed_. Wensleydale grumbled next to him.

"Rematch?" Brian asked. He was always a good sport. Wensleydale nodded. The two boys selected characters that flashed on the screen, and the game began to download.

"Hey, Wensley," Brian began. His friend didn't move his eyes from the screen.

"What?"

"Do you know where we might've seen a really funny looking guy in white, kind of oozy?" Brian's mind was searching for a connection, trying to place a forgotten image. He thought it might've been from a comic book, or a movie. Not real life.

Wensleydale looked at Brian, then. "No…" he mumbled. Memories raced around in his brain, looking for an outlet, a catalyst of some sort.

"I think he was the bad guy," Brian pressed. More memories were coming back. "There was a bloke in black, too…really skinny…"

The dam broke. All the safely repressed memories came flooding back.

"I remember," Wensleydale finally whispered. "Famine, Pollution, War. And Death."

The two boys stared at each other with identical expressions of fear and shock on their immature faces. The game started with an electronic jingle, but neither was paying attention.

"Somethin's goin' on, Wensley," Brian said. The hazy, false memories of that Saturday night were no longer about playing videogames or messing about in the Pit. They had been replaced by much clearer, sharper memories of the Armageddon that never was.

Wensleydale nodded. His eyes were wide behind the spectacles.

"Let's go see Adam," he suggested. Adam had controlled it last time—if that last time was true—if those memories weren't just daydreams—Wensleydale was suddenly very, very, confused. And scared. Even more scared than confused, if it were possible.

"Let's," Brian agreed. Both boys had, along with a fondness for flashy videogames and cherry slushes, an unwavering faith in their fair-haired friend.

The walk to Adam's house, when turned into a run, or even a sprint, is just a few minutes long.


	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimer: _Good Omens _and all the wonderful beings within do not belong to me. They belong to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, or vice versa... depends on which version of the cover you're looking at. No profit is being made, alas, I'm just having fun.

_A/N: This is my first Good Omens fic (unless you count the drabbles). There are several switches in POV, as in the book, and I've broken the whole thing up into chapters for your convenience. I've used miles and other American-isms, so bear with me please? This has also only been proofread by me, so I apologize for any daft spelling errors, etc._

Rated T for language, but it's really more of a K.

Any and all feedback will be very much appreciated. Thanks for reading!

* * *

"Oh," said Adam, when Pepper had finished recounting the details of her nightmare to him. "That wasn't a dream," he told her, trying for comfort and landing somewhere around forced. "It really did happen."

The redhead stared at him. Adam was very good at a lot of things, but being tactful was not one of his talents. She blinked. Adam grew worried. He hoped she wasn't going into shock, or anything awful like that.

"You're just rememb'ring it kinda late, that's all." Adam tried again. "It's okay. I remember it too." He failed miserably.

Pepper thought she would very much like to cry, from anger or fear or disbelief, or maybe from a combination of all three. And it was not very often that Pippin Galadriel Moonchild had cause to shed tears.

Adam panicked at the first sign of dewy droplets appearing in the corners of his friend's eyes. He might have been able to deal with an Armageddon, but he was still an eleven year old boy and frankly, the sight of Girls Crying scared him to death.


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimer: _Good Omens _and all the wonderful beings within do not belong to me. They belong to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, or vice versa... depends on which version of the cover you're looking at. No profit is being made, alas, I'm just having fun.

_A/N: This is my first Good Omens fic (unless you count the drabbles). There are several switches in POV, as in the book, and I've broken the whole thing up into chapters for your convenience. I've used miles and other American-isms, so bear with me please? This has also only been proofread by me, so I apologize for any daft spelling errors, etc._

Rated T for language, but it's really more of a K .

Any and all feedback will be very much appreciated. Thanks for reading!

* * *

The back seat of the Bentley was almost entirely burned away, and the front wasn't much better. Crowley and Aziraphale were perched on heaps of ash and rusting metal, frantically pretending the car was in one piece, not several thousand the size of dust mites.

Actually, Aziraphale was doing the bulk of the pretending. Crowley was just focusing on getting them to Tadfield as soon as possible. The speedometer had busted long ago, but they were going at _least_ two hundred. Maybe faster. Aziraphale didn't really want to think about it.

A rather large portion of the dash collapsed into molten plastic. Miraculously, the radio blared on, undeterred (the tape player had disintegrated a few miles back. Aziraphale had pocketed the tape—it'd turned out to be an incredibly boring spoken word lecture).

"Er," a disembodied voice was saying, "there seems to have been yet another sudden increase in international political tension lately, and there's also been a large theft of nuclear reactors…" The newscaster continued to list some eerily familiar phenomena that all had one thing in common. Adam.

It wasn't just the little things coming back. It was all of the big ones, too. The ones that Adam had caused and then fixed, before. Things weren't happening again: they'd just suddenly never _not_ happened. The whole thing gave Crowley a headache.

He blessed, loudly (Aziraphale pretended not to notice, and the car sank three inches and was in severe danger of rattling along the ground. Aziraphale made sure to focus on the Bentley from then on) and hoped Adam knew _exactly_ how much trouble he was causing. Bloody great rainforests were probably appearing in Brazil again, with houses being crushed underneath.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, merely hoped that the Four Horsepersons wouldn't take it into their heads to manifest again. He shut his eyes tightly (not out of trust in Crowley's mad driving, but out of necessity) and firmly believed that the four inches of empty air separating the Bentley from the ground were actually inflated, fully functional tires.

Both creatures, angel and demon, could've used a stiff drink or five.


	13. Chapter 13

Disclaimer: _Good Omens _and all the wonderful beings within do not belong to me. They belong to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, or vice versa... depends on which version of the cover you're looking at. No profit is being made, alas, I'm just having fun.

_A/N: This is my first Good Omens fic (unless you count the drabbles). There are several switches in POV, as in the book, and I've broken the whole thing up into chapters for your convenience. I've used miles and other American-isms, so bear with me please? This has also only been proofread by me, so I apologize for any daft spelling errors, etc._

Rated T for language, but it's really more of a K .

Any and all feedback will be very much appreciated. Thanks for reading!

* * *

Newton Pulsifer was awakened by the sound of a very nice foreign automobile morphing into a rather decrepit, rusting… thing. It was the Wasabi, of course, changing back to its previous state. With a final triumphant clunk, the de-transformation was finished, complete with two aliens chattering off to the side. Newt heard the chatter, too, and peered out the window for a quick look.

At first he thought he'd forgotten to put on his glasses; he was fairly certain he'd always had quite a nice foreign car. The words 'Dick Turpin' stood out in high relief against the chipping paint of the old vehicle. Something clicked very quickly in Newt's brain. "Ah," he said, quite at a loss for words. He completely ignored the aliens.

Newt had always had that car, he realized. Dick Turpin, the Wasabi. Well, up until a few weeks ago, when things got messy and the Antichrist decided to assert his powers. He'd gotten a new car, a nice one—apparently the Antichrist liked him—but also had his memory modified (although to be honest, Newt had done some serious mental repression all on his own. It was human nature).

Newt was overwhelmed. He turned to Anathema.

"Psst," he whispered into her very attractive ear. "Anathema." She stirred, and rubbed at her eyes. There was plaster sprinkled in her hair, and dusting her shoulders. Like snow. Or a really bad case of dandruff. Newt preferred the former.

"Yes?" Her voice was sleep-roughened and also very attractive.

"You wouldn't happen to remember, would you—" Anathema sighed.

"This again?"

Newt nodded weakly.

"No, I don't remember. Nothing aside from the usual, that is." The circumstances of their meeting were rather hazy in Anathema's mind (for they were in fact brought together because of the Armageddon, and if she believed that there had been no Armageddon, well—that caused some problems) and her brain stubbornly ignored that lingering awkward curiosity.

"Oh," replied Newt. "Because I just did." He paused. "Remember, that is."

"Really." Anathema did not look convinced. Intelligent minds tend to be strong minds, and strong minds are hard to change. Adam's little memory modification had had a very difficult time trying to get Anathema to forget. Bringing the memories back would be twice as hard.

The whole story came out in a rush. Newt was babbling again, Anathema noticed in a small corner of her mind. He was even gesticulating. Wildly. Thankfully, the bulk of her thoughts were focused on what he was saying.

"… and that's why Dick Turpin, you know, the car, well that's why it changed, and so it's still Dick Turpin but not really because it's changing _back_ and…" Newt trailed off, hands flopping back to his lap. He had very successfully confused himself. Anathema raised a delicate eyebrow.

"I'll show you," Newt finally said. He gracelessly rolled out of the bed and tugged on an argyle sweater. Anathema followed rather more elegantly, and wrapped herself in a robe.

It was getting dark, and hard to see properly. Newt found a torch, and flicked it on. He pointed it out the window, illuminating the car. It looked horrible.

Anathema couldn't deny this piece of evidence. The memories streamed back into her overwhelmed conscious.

"Oh," she said quietly. "That changes things."

She closed her eyes for a long moment. Newt began to get worried, until she opened them, a determined look on her attractive face.

"Let's go talk to this Adam kid," she said. "We've got some things to sort out."

Newt, relieved to know he'd no longer have to be in charge, nodded. He went to get the keys to his car. Anathema shook her head.

"A few hours ago it might've worked. But that—" she pointed to the heap of metal— "is not going to get us anywhere. We'll take Phaeton." Newt looked at her blankly.

"You pedal, and I'll stand on the back." Brilliant. He wondered why they hadn't thought of it before.

Outside, the aliens frowned at each other. There weren't any humans to deliver messages of peace and goodwill to. One of them bleeped and blooped quietly, and the other solemnly nodded. "Seems like it's back to the home world for us."


	14. Chapter 14

Disclaimer: _Good Omens _and all the wonderful beings within do not belong to me. They belong to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, or vice versa... depends on which version of the cover you're looking at. No profit is being made, alas, I'm just having fun.

_A/N: This is my first Good Omens fic (unless you count the drabbles). There are several switches in POV, as in the book, and I've broken the whole thing up into chapters for your convenience. I've used miles and other American-isms, so bear with me please? This has also only been proofread by me, so I apologize for any daft spelling errors, etc._

Rated T for language, but it's really more of a K .

Any and all feedback will be very much appreciated. Thanks for reading!

* * *

Wensleydale was the slightest bit faster than Brian, and he made it to the Young's house first. He blew through the door—Mr. Young hadn't bothered to lock it—and shouted an apology as he stomped up the stairs. Brian followed seconds later, though he had the decency to kick off his muddy shoes (onto the carpet, which made poor Mr. Young wince quite dramatically) before he too ran upstairs.

Mr. Young wondered what was going on with Adam and his friends. Awfully jumpy tonight, they were.

Pepper had managed to regain her composure before the other boys showed up. A good thing, too, otherwise a fight might have broken out between them. It was bad enough that Adam had seen her cry.

As a result, Pepper was feeling a bit prickly towards the world, not to mention the usual combination of fear/confusion/shock. Brian and Wensleydale, whether for better or for worse, didn't notice her moodiness, being overcome with panic.

"Adam—" Wensleydale started—

"There's something really, really weird going on—" Brian added—

Adam nodded sagely. He was eerily calm. "You're rememb'ring stuff, right?"

The boys nodded. It could be called remembering, if all those images and sounds weren't just daydreams that suddenly overlapped between the two of them, and Adam too, it seemed…

Adam dropped the bomb, then. "It's all true." He figured, quite wrongly, that Brian and Wensleydale, both being Men and therefore Most Definitely Not Girly, would not need the gentle building-up-to that Pepper had required.

Brian screamed. Wensley fell over, and then picked himself up rather hurriedly and tried to pretend as if nothing had happened.

Pepper grinned at them, feeling slightly better. "Lightweights," she said.

"Be nice," Adam replied, and told Brian to shut up. Politely, of course.


	15. Chapter 15

Disclaimer: _Good Omens _and all the wonderful beings within do not belong to me. They belong to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, or vice versa... depends on which version of the cover you're looking at. No profit is being made, alas, I'm just having fun.

_A/N: This is my first Good Omens fic (unless you count the drabbles). There are several switches in POV, as in the book, and I've broken the whole thing up into chapters for your convenience. I've used miles and other American-isms, so bear with me please? This has also only been proofread by me, so I apologize for any daft spelling errors, etc._

Rated T for language, but it's really more of a K .

Any and all feedback will be very much appreciated. Thanks for reading!

* * *

Shadwell downed another bottle of Guinness and wondered muzzily whether he'd overdone it. He'd already shouted all the obscure insults he could think of, and sang quite a few fight songs sometime in the past hour or so. Madame Tracy had retreated to her room and was doing mysterious, undoubtedly feminine things. Shadwell shuddered. Women. Even the ones with just two nipples were scary enough. 

He tapped his fingers thoughtfully against the sturdy wooden table. The kitchen was really too small. Shadwell stood up quickly—too quickly—and nearly fell over. Bollocks to that plan, then. He grunted and sat back down. Carefully.

An image flitted across his mind. A bell, a book, a candle. A whole ring of candles. A bloke in tartan standing in the middle. Fire, and flies. His eyes widened.

Even with a few pints in him, Shadwell wasn't nearly this imaginative. And he certainly didn't have memories like _this_. Shadwell was a witchfinder (albeit a retired one), and he knew when something was up. This was most definitely up.

He wasn't completely sure what it was. But it wasn't natural. Possession, maybe. Or some fey enchantment, set upon him from afar. Shadwell sat up straighter. He shivered. His eyes slowly traveled to the cabinet above the refrigerator. His weapons. Never thought he'd need 'em, now. Not anymore. But need them he did.

Shadwell cautiously took hold of the table and pulled himself up. He tottered over to the cabinet and opened it, nearly whacking himself on the head in the process. Three shiny silver bullets stared down at him.

There was one last witch to hunt.


	16. Chapter 16

Disclaimer: _Good Omens _and all the wonderful beings within do not belong to me. They belong to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, or vice versa... depends on which version of the cover you're looking at. No profit is being made, alas, I'm just having fun.

_A/N: This is my first Good Omens fic (unless you count the drabbles). There are several switches in POV, as in the book, and I've broken the whole thing up into chapters for your convenience. I've used miles and other American-isms, so bear with me please? This has also only been proofread by me, so I apologize for any daft spelling errors, etc._

Rated T for language, but it's really more of a K .

Any and all feedback will be very much appreciated. Thanks for reading!

* * *

Aziraphale drummed his fingers against what was left of the dash. "How much longer do you think it'll be?" he asked Crowley. He'd given up trying to reconstruct the car—which was mostly just a charred metal frame floating on a few inches of empty air—and had just focused his efforts on preventing any further damage. The demon frowned.

"About seven minutes, I'd say. Maybe sooner, if we speed up." They were going about two hundred. It would be hard to go very much faster.

"I think we have time, then." The rate of change-back had been increasing, exponentially, it seemed, as time passed. Eventually things would revert back completely, to the state before the fix—and then what would happen? Aziraphale paused, and took a breath. He'd been breathing rather deeply for the past few hours. It was a bad habit of his, normal breathing (as opposed to the occasional sigh for effect). It only happened when his emotions ran high. "Do you think he's given up his powers?"

Crowley didn't need a name to know who Aziraphale was referring to. It'd been on his mind, too, the whole time. Well, when he wasn't worrying about the breakdown of the Bentley, that is, or the well-being of the fussy angel sitting next to him. Aziraphale wasn't good with near-collisions. Usually Crowley liked to watch him cringe, but this time his heart wasn't really into it. For obvious reasons.

"He must've done something of the sort. Why else would things be changing back like they have?" Aziraphale nodded.

"Maybe we need the power that was the catalyst to keep the changes in place," the angel mused. "Because the will of that power keeps it intact."

"Not always," Crowley said. "Usually, the catalyst doesn't change. It's not affected, and so it shouldn't affect the events. This just doesn't make sense. You'd think the changes would stick."

"But Adam was the balance," Aziraphale said, puzzling things out. "I think."

"Maybe," replied Crowley.

"The Armageddon was supposed to happen for a reason," Aziraphale mused.

"Our people never really did tell us why. I think they assumed we just knew it was going to happen. And follow all the standard procedure, which we didn't. Er." Crowley glared at the road and willed the car to fly (it wasn't really rolling, anymore—the axles of the wheels had ceased to turn quite a long time ago) faster. Aziraphale added what he could to Crowley's mental push.

"Same here," replied Aziraphale.

"You think there might've been a buildup of something, then, and Adam balanced it out?" Aziraphale pursed his lips.

"Yes. Well, no. Erm. Maybe? It was ineffable, the Armageddon. Wasn't it? It's all ineffable, in the end."

"Maybe Adam's plan is also ineffable."

There was a long pause. The Bentley took the opportunity to disintegrate even further. Crowley winced. He might not be able to get it back again, this time.

"You think he has a plan?" Aziraphale sounded hesitant.

"It's hard to tell," Crowley admitted. "He's only eleven years old, after all."

Physically Adam was only eleven years old. Mentally a part of him was only eleven years old. But that last, other part of him—that part of him was older than sin itself.

"But maybe his actions are ineffable."

"The Armageddon was supposed to be ineffable, but we stopped that, too." Crowley wasn't sure why he was arguing, except that there were questions to be asked and things to get down to the bottom of. He didn't like loose ends.

Aziraphale sighed, a real one. "Yes. Well. I don't know." He bit his lip. Crowley watched. "Let's just get it done. Somehow."

"Yes. Sssomehow," Crowley replied, cynical. "A good question, that."

"We don't even know what's going on," Aziraphale retorted, a tad testily. "Let's just… talk to the boy. And…"

"Improvise from there?" Crowley was smirking somewhat on the outside, though the inside was an entirely different story.

"What else can we do?" Aziraphale asked.

It wasn't meant to be a rhetorical question, but Crowley didn't answer it, anyway.


	17. Chapter 17

Disclaimer: _Good Omens _and all the wonderful beings within do not belong to me. They belong to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, or vice versa... depends on which version of the cover you're looking at. No profit is being made, alas, I'm just having fun.

_A/N: This is my first Good Omens fic (unless you count the drabbles). There are several switches in POV, as in the book, and I've broken the whole thing up into chapters for your convenience. I've used miles and other American-isms, so bear with me please? This has also only been proofread by me, so I apologize for any daft spelling errors, etc._

Rated T for language, but it's really more of a K .

Any and all feedback will be very much appreciated. Thanks for reading!

* * *

Anathema looked down at Newt. Shards of plaster were still mixed in his dark hair. She brushed them out as best she could, which caused him to glance up at her. 

"Keep your eyes on the road," she admonished, prodding his shoulders none-too-gently. "We survived the Apocalypse, let's survive our trip to the Antichrist."

Newt shuddered. He knew it all to be true, but was still having trouble registering it. Anathema felt the same way, though she didn't dare say so.

Someone had to be the last bastion of sanity here, after all, and it certainly wasn't going to be Newton Pulsifer.

- - - - - -

Madame Tracy stared at Shadwell. "Oh, no you aren't, Mister S." She tried to take the bullets out of his hand, but it was no use. "There aren't any more witches," she said. There were, of course, but Madame Tracy didn't know that.

"Jus' one last one, I swear," Shadwell muttered. "Laid a fool curse on me, she did. I need t' have my revenge."

"It's not a curse," Madame Tracy said weakly.

"Then how do ye explain the thoughts?" Shadwell shot back.

"They're just memories," Madame Tracy said. Though she wasn't too sure about that. "Dreams, maybe. Or perhaps we've just had a bit too much to drink?" Shadwell shook his head darkly.

"'S a fool curse," he said. "Aye, and I'll get ma reveenge too."

Madame Tracy gave up trying to stop him. "Then I'm coming with you," she said quickly, hoping to take him by surprise. She did.

"Huh." She beamed and hoped she could keep him out of trouble.

"If you need help, dear. So where's the, ah… witch?" Shadwell smiled with grim satisfaction. Madame Tracy looked at him expectantly.

"Tadfield."

It was only a fifteen minute drive. Too easy, really.

- - - - - -

Adam surveyed his gang. The Them. "So," he said. "You're rememb'ring." They nodded. "I never meant for you to remember," he said thoughtfully. "I just wanted the whole business to be done and over with." Pepper looked indignant.

"You were just goin' to keep it a secret from us?" she asked, feeling slighted. Adam made a face.

"'m sorry," he said. "It was a bad idea." Though it wasn't, really. The remembering part and the changing back part were bad ideas, but Adam hadn't really intended for those to happen, so they didn't really count. Not really.

"Uh, Adam?" Wensleydale ventured. Adam turned to him. There was still a touch of the Antichrist about him, and Wensley shivered involuntarily.

"Yeah?"

"If you never intended for us t' remember, then why are we doin' it now?"


	18. Chapter 18

Disclaimer: _Good Omens _and all the wonderful beings within do not belong to me. They belong to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, or vice versa... depends on which version of the cover you're looking at. No profit is being made, alas, I'm just having fun.

_A/N: This is my first Good Omens fic (unless you count the drabbles). There are several switches in POV, as in the book, and I've broken the whole thing up into chapters for your convenience. I've used miles and other American-isms, so bear with me please? This has also only been proofread by me, so I apologize for any daft spelling errors, etc._

Rated T for language, but it's really more of a K .

Any and all feedback will be very much appreciated. Thanks for reading!

* * *

Newt and Anathema reached the Young residence fairly quickly, both being considerably damper than before, and also rather harried looking. Anathema hopped off Phaeton and gave the bike a loving pat on the rear wheel-cover. 

"Erm," said Newt awkwardly. "I can't feel my feet." His shoes were soaked all the way through, and his toes were quite numb.

Anathema sighed and steadied the bicycle as Newt clambered down from it, rather clumsily. He caught his pant leg on the pedals and nearly ended up on the ground. Anathema shook her head. Newt smiled at her apologetically.

"Thanks," he said. Anathema didn't reply, merely wheeling Phaeton out to the side of the house, where Pepper's bike leaned against the garage.

"Looks like someone's already here," Anathema said. Newt, following (and half-limping) behind her, nodded.

"I think it's one of those kids' bikes. Y'know, Them?"

"We all headed towards Adam," Anathema observed wryly. She knew that the rest of Them were already at Adam's house. She was indeed too psychic for her own good.

"Wonder if those two will show up?" Newt said. Anathema shrugged.

"Maybe," she replied. "Let's go." She absently took Newt's hand and pulled him along to the front. It was a testament to Newt's inordinate fondness towards her that the magnificence of that moment completely overshadowed his fear of the other events happening. He was a boy in love. It was understandable.

- - - - - -

By 'those two,' Newt of course meant Crowley and Aziraphale. Those two were indeed going to show up at Adam's house, but at the moment, they were experiencing some transportation-related difficulties. Namely, the Bentley and the condition and operation thereof.

Crowley looked like Hell. Really. His eyes were glowing a bright yellow, his jaw clenched tightly. Even with Aziraphale's help, the state of the car had degraded very quickly, and the speed they were traveling at only made things worse. Aziraphale looked at the demon. "Crowley," he said, slowing the vehicle down. Which wasn't much. The Bentley could barely maintain a speed of eighty, let alone the two hundred it was going at before.

The demon jerked his head around irritably. "What?"

"I think we're going to have to make the rest of this journey on foot," Aziraphale said cautiously.

Crowley stared at him. His eyes grew even brighter, if that were possible. Aziraphale could almost smell the fire and brimstone.

"_What_?"


	19. Chapter 19

Disclaimer: _Good Omens _and all the wonderful beings within do not belong to me. They belong to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, or vice versa... depends on which version of the cover you're looking at. No profit is being made, alas, I'm just having fun.

_A/N: This is my first Good Omens fic (unless you count the drabbles). There are several switches in POV, as in the book, and I've broken the whole thing up into chapters for your convenience. I've used miles and other American-isms, so bear with me please? This has also only been proofread by me, so I apologize for any daft spelling errors, etc._

Rated T for language, but it's really more of a K .

Any and all feedback will be very much appreciated. Thanks for reading!

* * *

Madame Tracy's scooter, was, unfortunately, not up to the task of transporting an eager Witchfinder (semi-retired) and a fortune teller (retired) to Tadfield. Shadwell insisted on going, though, and so they called a cabbie. 

It took five minutes for the nearest branch to send a fellow over, and then the poor bloke got lost. Madame Tracy was forced to give him halting directions while Shadwell roared in the background. One way or another, the man made it to Shangri-Laurels.

"That's an interesting name," he said good-naturedly, after Shadwell and Madame Tracy had settled their selves into the cab. "Shangri-Laurels. How'd you come up with it?"

"It was a compromise," Madame Tracy explained. "We wanted something normal, like the Laurels, but also something dramatic, like Shangri-La." She giggled, half out of nervousness that Shadwell's whims would get them both into danger. "Tra-la. So it became Shangri-Laurels." Shadwell muttered something.

"What was that?" the cabbie said.

"Hurry up, ye southern heathen!" Shadwell said loudly. They were slowly backing out of the driveway and onto the roads. The driver blanched.

Madame Tracy flushed. "Why, Mister S," she admonished.

"It's important b's'ness," Shadwell replied. It was reasonable, he felt.

"Really?" said the cabbie, still making the effort to be polite.

"Witch finding," Shadwell told him, bursting with pride.

The driver got a funny look on his face. One that clearly said: 'what the bloody Hell have I gotten myself into?'

"Oh," he said vocally. "Wonderful." He made a mental promise to never, ever visit Shangri-Laurels again, no matter how much they needed a cabbie, and floored it. The man was in a hurry. And he probably had a weapon.


	20. Chapter 20

Disclaimer: _Good Omens _and all the wonderful beings within do not belong to me. They belong to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, or vice versa... depends on which version of the cover you're looking at. No profit is being made, alas, I'm just having fun.

_A/N: This is my first Good Omens fic (unless you count the drabbles). There are several switches in POV, as in the book, and I've broken the whole thing up into chapters for your convenience. I've used miles and other American-isms, so bear with me please? This has also only been proofread by me, so I apologize for any daft spelling errors, etc._

Rated T for language, but it's really more of a K .

Any and all feedback will be very much appreciated. Thanks for reading!

* * *

Anathema politely rang the doorbell, and then on second thought took the knob firmly in hand and wrenched the door open. Courtesy could wait. They needed _answers_. 

A stunned Mr. Young was waiting on the other side of the door.

"We need to see Adam," Anathema said quickly.

"It's very important," Newt put in, already beginning to step inside.

Mr. Young crossed his arms. "Now, wait just a moment. How do you know Adam? Who are you, anyway?" Mr. Young had in fact been present for part of the almost-Armageddon, but he was of such a solid nature that the memory hadn't stayed for very long, and when it returned it was banished as quickly as it came.

A lie neatly slid out from between Anathema's attractive lips. "We're his teachers," she fibbed. "Well, teaching assistants. We're new. You know." Mr. Young did not look convinced. He might have believed the lie under different circumstances, but he highly doubted that two teaching assistants would show up sopping wet and clearly agitated. He raised an eyebrow.

"We're trustworthy, really," Newt said.

From anyone else that statement would've only raised suspicion, but coming from hapless Newton Pulsifer, it reeked of innocence and honesty.

"Very well," Mr. Young said reluctantly, clearly stating that it was actually Not Well At All. Anathema ignored his discomfort, but thanked him profusely as she bent to pull off her shoes. Newt skipped the process entirely in favor of running towards the stairs, then stopped suddenly.

"Which room is his?" Newt asked, lamely.

"End of the hall," Mr. Young replied with a weary sigh. Some teachers those two were. No manners, whatsoever.

The two young persons immediately dashed upstairs. Mr. Young covered his face with his hand for a brief moment, and then went into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. Within a few minutes the oddness would have left him, and all would be well in the mind of solid Mr. Young.


	21. Chapter 21

Disclaimer: _Good Omens _and all the wonderful beings within do not belong to me. They belong to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, or vice versa... depends on which version of the cover you're looking at. No profit is being made, alas, I'm just having fun.

_A/N: This is my first Good Omens fic (unless you count the drabbles). There are several switches in POV, as in the book, and I've broken the whole thing up into chapters for your convenience. I've used miles and other American-isms, so bear with me please? This has also only been proofread by me, so I apologize for any daft spelling errors, etc._

Rated T for language, but it's really more of a K .

Any and all feedback will be very much appreciated. Thanks for reading!

* * *

Crowley was absolutely furious. "I started this journey in the Bentley, I'm damn well going to end it in the Bentley!" There was something akin to desperation in his wide, wild golden eyes. Aziraphale pretended not to notice, for the demon's sake.

"My dear—"

"_Angel_," Crowley warned. Aziraphale gave him an irritated look. It didn't phase the demon.

"_Crowley_," the angel corrected.

"I'm listening," Crowley muttered.

"You started this journey with me as well, you know. And you can still end it with me," Aziraphale said evenly. He made to get out of what used to be a car.

Crowley understood the meaning shrouded in the simple statement. He didn't want Aziraphale to leave. More to the point, he didn't want Aziraphale to leave _him_. Though he'd never admit it in a million millennia. He watched as the angel stepped out of the wreckage and crossed to his side, offering him an elegant hand. Crowley smothered the urge to take it, and, after a short moment that felt much more like a long one, he reluctantly got out himself. Their fingertips still brushed as he stood.

Aziraphale tried to give him a smile, something, anything in return for the abandonment of the Bentley, but Crowley would have none of it. The demon let his focus slide off the car, and the Bentley promptly collapsed into a sad heap. He might not be able to get it back this time. Crowley looked away very quickly.

"Second time doesn't get any easier," he said quietly. Sadly, one might almost think. "Never thought it would happen again. Not for a while, at least." Aziraphale took his hand, strictly on impulse, and gave it a brief squeeze. Crowley didn't shy away, didn't even let go.

They walked away in slow silence, but sooner than later, they dropped hands and broke into a run.


	22. Chapter 22

Disclaimer: _Good Omens _and all the wonderful beings within do not belong to me. They belong to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, or vice versa... depends on which version of the cover you're looking at. No profit is being made, alas, I'm just having fun.

_A/N: This is my first Good Omens fic (unless you count the drabbles). There are several switches in POV, as in the book, and I've broken the whole thing up into chapters for your convenience. I've used miles and other American-isms, so bear with me please? This has also only been proofread by me, so I apologize for any daft spelling errors, etc._

Rated T for language, but it's really more of a K .

Any and all feedback will be very much appreciated. Thanks for reading!

* * *

"Adam!" Anathema called out as she raced towards the boy's room. She stood framed in the doorway, backed by Newt. She looked rather like a witch. In the best possible way. "Adam," she repeated.

Three pairs of eleven-year-old eyes (and one pair that was infinitely older) stared at her.

"Things are _changing back_," she said breathlessly.

- - - - - -

Then a number of things happened more or less simultaneously.

One: something, or perhaps several connected somethings, clicked, very neatly and rapidly, in Adam's brain. "Ah," he said, almost sheepishly.

Two: Crowley and Aziraphale, who had been running at full tilt towards Adam's house, arrived there and burst through the poor door. Mr. Young took one look at them and shook his head. He'd given up. And the fellow in tartan didn't look so bad; he could probably keep the one in sunglasses in check. Mr. Young returned to his tea. His memory remained blissfully unaware.

The angel and demon didn't bother asking where Adam's room was. They knew. It was the place of the most energy. A convergence. The two glided upstairs, leaving no marks on the (by now) very well worn carpet. Mr. Young's headache miraculously disappeared. 'Least I could do," he heard the tartan-clad one say.

Three: Madame Tracy and Shadwell's cab (complete with frightened cabbie) sped into the outskirts of Tadfield, powered by fear of Shadwell and cheap petrol. Something big was going to happen, Madame Tracy thought, though she couldn't possibly say how she knew. Something bigger than the remembering, even.

Shadwell had given the matter a lot of good hard thought and decided that he wouldn't actually _hurt_ the witch. For one thing, it seemed to be an ordinary young boy. And for another—Shadwell would never admit it, but he'd grown soft. He didn't even have a pin, or a gun to put the bullets in.

Four: in a place far Down There, the first angel to fall felt something stir, and he began to frown. And in a place very High Up, an ineffable being shook His wise old head and sighed.


	23. Chapter 23

Disclaimer: _Good Omens _and all the wonderful beings within do not belong to me. They belong to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, or vice versa... depends on which version of the cover you're looking at. No profit is being made, alas, I'm just having fun.

_A/N: This is my first Good Omens fic (unless you count the drabbles). There are several switches in POV, as in the book, and I've broken the whole thing up into chapters for your convenience. I've used miles and other American-isms, so bear with me please? This has also only been proofread by me, so I apologize for any daft spelling errors, etc._

Rated T for language, but it's really more of a K .

Any and all feedback will be very much appreciated. Thanks for reading!

* * *

Adam looked up at the two men-shaped creatures that had stormed into his room. The first, a thin man with good cheekbones and dark glasses, did not look pleased. The other, a slightly shorter, more pleasant-looking fellow, looked worried.

"Dear boy—" Aziraphale began, and Adam couldn't tell if he was addressing him or the dark man at his side.

Crowley glared at the angel. "You," he said to Adam. "You _changed_ something."

"Hello, Crowley," Adam replied. "Aziraphale." His voice sounded oddly hollow.

And that was when Aziraphale figured it out.

Adam was the Antichrist, but he was a completely human one. There was no massive aura surrounding him anymore, no more careless acts of change. Somehow Adam _had _given up his powers. Did he wish them away himself?

If he'd done so, it might be impossible to get them back.

If he'd done so, it might be impossible to get _anything_ back.

"Crowley," Aziraphale murmured. "Do you feel that?" Crowley nodded, once, a sharp one. The… feeling in the air that usually surrounded the Antichrist was gone. Adam was now as human as you and me.

"Adam," Aziraphale said, taking over, "what exactly have you done?"


	24. Chapter 24

Disclaimer: _Good Omens _and all the wonderful beings within do not belong to me. They belong to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, or vice versa... depends on which version of the cover you're looking at. No profit is being made, alas, I'm just having fun.

_A/N: This is my first Good Omens fic (unless you count the drabbles). There are several switches in POV, as in the book, and I've broken the whole thing up into chapters for your convenience. I've used miles and other American-isms, so bear with me please? This has also only been proofread by me, so I apologize for any daft spelling errors, etc._

Rated T for language, but it's really more of a K .

Any and all feedback will be very much appreciated. Thanks for reading!

* * *

There was a very long pause. In actuality it only lasted perhaps fifteen seconds, but it felt like millennia. And Crowley and Aziraphale knew what millennia felt like. Long. Very long. And tense. So very tense.

"Got rid of my powers," he said, confirming their worst suspicions.

Crowley took a deep breath, and then was startled to realize he'd been breathing. Aziraphale had been breathing long before him, short shallow breaths that made his body ache. "Oh." He didn't know what he was going to say after that.

"I s'pose that's why all this is happ'nin' then, right? Anathema an' Newt told me all about it." Aziraphale nodded weakly. He wasn't sure what to do. He'd originally planned to storm in, interrogate the boy as nicely as he could, and then set everything straight as quickly as possible. It didn't look as though this was going to happen.

"You know it can't stay like this," Crowley said, finding his voice. "We've got to fix things," he added forcefully. Or tried. It came out sounding rather more desperate.

"I know," Adam said.

"You're going to have to get your powers back," Aziraphale said quietly.

Adam frowned. "Huh," he said. "I was hopin' I wouldn't have t' get them back."

"There's a balance, or… something," Aziraphale tried to explain. He felt himself to be slightly more approachable than Crowley, and decided that taking control of the situation wouldn't be so bad.

"And you broke it," Crowley put in. Apparently he didn't feel the same way.

Aziraphale stared at the demon. "Would you mind?"

"Sorry," he muttered, in a tone that clearly meant that he was not sorry at all, and actually would really rather get this all done as neatly and quickly as possible.

"How did you become human, Adam?" Aziraphale asked.

"Why?" said Crowley. There was another pause.

Adam made a face. "I didn't want the respons'bility anymore. I _like_ being normal. So I gave 'em away until I needed to take 'em back." Aziraphale looked surprised.

"I've read all the fairytales," Adam said, grinning. "I'm not an idiot. I'm not gonna get rid of them for good, 'cos it never turns out right if you do."

- - - - - -

Well, that made things considerably easier. He hadn't banished his abilities to the pits of Hell, given them to the Kraken, or deposited them in some other such sundry location. At least, that's what they all assumed.

Aziraphale and Crowley smiled (or, in the demon's case, stopped frowning so strongly) with relief. The Them, who had been confusedly following the conversation from a few feet away, knew that at the very least things would be fixed, and that was okay for them. Anathema nearly started laughing, the whole business was so ridiculous. All this trouble and the fix would be as easy as _that._ Newt didn't really get it either, but he knew everything was going to be all right. And that was enough for him.

Less than a mile away, a Witchfinder was speeding towards the house in a cab, out to find one last witch. But not kill him, thankfully. Shadwell had grown soft.


	25. Chapter 25

Disclaimer: _Good Omens _and all the wonderful beings within do not belong to me. They belong to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, or vice versa... depends on which version of the cover you're looking at. No profit is being made, alas, I'm just having fun.

_A/N: This is my first Good Omens fic (unless you count the drabbles). There are several switches in POV, as in the book, and I've broken the whole thing up into chapters for your convenience. I've used miles and other American-isms, so bear with me please? This has also only been proofread by me, so I apologize for any daft spelling errors, etc._

Rated T for language, but it's really more of a K .

Any and all feedback will be very much appreciated. Thanks for reading!

* * *

"So," said Crowley. "Who did you give your powers to?"

"My father," Adam answered cheerfully.

"Mr. Young?" Aziraphale asked, shocked.

"No," replied Adam. "The other one." A beat. "Y'know, Satan."

If Anathema were the fainting sort, she would've collapsed right then. Wensley did fall over, pulling himself upright before Brian could laugh at him. Pepper sat there, on Adam's bed, and didn't say anything.

"How are you _bloody_ going to _get them back_?!" Crowley shouted, eyes glowing again. It was only the presence of the Them that prevented him from using worse language. He knew quite a lot of blistering curses.

Adam looked up at Crowley.

"I'll call 'im," he said calmly. "Do you have a phone?"

- - - - - -

Outside, not too far away, a cab stopped on a main street.

"_What_? You don't know the address? Well, you can just walk the rest of the way!"

Shadwell and Madame Tracy were duly dropped off. The cabbie drove away, annoyed and relieved at the same time. That man had seemed _dangerous_.

"Look for any suspicious houses," Shadwell muttered. They began walking, Shadwell inspecting houses, Madame Tracy trying not to trip in the mud.

They turned a corner for no particular reason. Ineffability, perhaps. The Young residence loomed up ahead. There was one window with a light on, and they could see small, agitated figures through it. Shadwell recognized Crowley immediately, and after staring a bit longer, he could see Adam, too. The witch.

"It's that wun," he said darkly. "Watch out, ye fool witch! Shadwell's comin' for ye."


	26. Chapter 26

Disclaimer: _Good Omens _and all the wonderful beings within do not belong to me. They belong to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, or vice versa... depends on which version of the cover you're looking at. No profit is being made, alas, I'm just having fun.

_A/N: This is my first Good Omens fic (unless you count the drabbles). There are several switches in POV, as in the book, and I've broken the whole thing up into chapters for your convenience. I've used miles and other American-isms, so bear with me please? This has also only been proofread by me, so I apologize for any daft spelling errors, etc._

Rated T for language, but it's really more of a K .

Any and all feedback will be very much appreciated. Thanks for reading!

* * *

Crowley pulled his ridiculously sleek phone out of his pocket. Or maybe he simply manifested it in his hand, from wherever it'd been stashed in the meantime. Crowley would never let a piece of human machinery ruin the line of his suit. He handed it over to Adam. 

"Ooh," Brian said. "Nice phone." Wensleydale made a noise of agreement. Crowley nodded, not feeling well enough to acknowledge the compliment further. Pepper raised an eyebrow.

"Must've been expensive," she remarked. Crowley didn't say anything.

"Thanks," Adam said, taking the object from the demon's cold hands.

"Anytime," Crowley muttered. He hoped (again, something demons don't do so well) that Adam could figure out things with his father. Lucifer. Because Crowley didn't want to even face that creature. It would be very, very bad.

Adam dialed a number with no digits and put the phone to his ear.

And waited. It was deathly quiet.

"Hullo?" he said finally. "Yep, it's me. Hi. Um. Been a long time?" A pause. "I was wond'ring if I could have my powers back." Another pause, this time longer. "I need them."

Aziraphale gaped at the boy. "Is he _really_ talking to Satan?" he whispered to Crowley.

"I don't think he'd fake this," Crowley replied. Though he was unsure. No one ever talked to Lucifer with such _nonchalance_.

"You can give 'em back, right?" Adam looked a little frustrated. "I thought it wasn't for keeps."

None of the beings in the room could hear what was being said on the other end of the line, save Adam. But they could very well guess. And they were worried.

"I _know_." Two men-shaped creatures held their breath. "You may be my father, but you're not my dad. You can't call me that."

Adam was talking back to Satan. Talking. Back. To Satan. Crowley wanted to scream. Aziraphale didn't know how to miracle it all better.

"Look," Adam was saying. "Have you got another Armageddon planned?" Silence. Five human hearts beat double time. Two immortal ones started pumping blood into bodies that hadn't needed it since they were created. One infinite heart thudded with human nervousness. "Well, if I get 'em back then you won't have to spawn another Antichrist."

That should get him, Crowley thought with some relief. Down There loved to save time, and money. But not lives.

"What? I hafta call _Him_ too?" Adam looked slightly flustered. "Okay. Okay. Thanks. Right. I'll stay in touch."

Stay in touch? What has this boy been dealing with? Aziraphale gave up trying to understand and chalked it all up to ineffability. And Him? Was Aziraphale just imagining that capital letter? He hoped (again, something angels do very well) so.

Adam hung up, looking overwhelmed.

"Can I make just one more phone call?" he asked Crowley.

"Go ahead," Crowley replied. I can't stop you, he thought morosely.

"Thanks again," Adam said. He dialed the same number in reverse, and put the phone to his ear again. The phone had begun smoke. Aziraphale wondered if Crowley noticed.

"Hi," Adam said. The wait was much shorter this time. "It's Adam Young. Yeah. The Antichrist." Aziraphale imagined some desk angel falling off his seat in shock. The image wasn't as funny as it should've been.

"Can I talk to Him?" A pause. "He's in a meeting? Can I talk to Him anyway?"

Aziraphale didn't know what kind of theatrics were going on Up There, but meetings were rare. Did He know that Adam had… changed?

"Thanks," Adam said, looking very satisfied. Aziraphale sent a silent prayer Up There. He prayed that He would understand.

"Hullo," Adam said. "Um. I need to ask a favor." Pause. Aziraphale wondered what the voice of God sounded like now. He'd heard it once, a long time ago. A very long time ago. Did the voice of God change with the seasons?

Adam told Him what was going on, the changes, the problems. "I know there's gonna be another Armageddon, and, well…" He trailed off. "I know you don't like me, but I need your permission."

Crowley and Aziraphale looked at each other. What had Satan said? What was God saying?

"I was okay last time, right?" Adam sounded worried. "I can't tell you I'll use it for good, because I can't." He really wanted to be only human, Aziraphale thought. If the world was fair, this boy would have been born human.

"I'll do my best," Adam said. "Yes." Crowley wondered if this was enough to start a divine battle. Mortal wars had been fought over less.

"Thank you," Adam said quietly. "Take care," he added.

Aziraphale wondered what God had said to cause that.


	27. Chapter 27

Disclaimer: _Good Omens _and all the wonderful beings within do not belong to me. They belong to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, or vice versa... depends on which version of the cover you're looking at. No profit is being made, alas, I'm just having fun.

_A/N: This is my first Good Omens fic (unless you count the drabbles). There are several switches in POV, as in the book, and I've broken the whole thing up into chapters for your convenience. I've used miles and other American-isms, so bear with me please? This has also only been proofread by me, so I apologize for any daft spelling errors, etc._

Rated T for language, but it's really more of a K .

Any and all feedback will be very much appreciated. Thanks for reading!

* * *

Downstairs in the Young house, the front door opened of its own accord. A tall dark shape passed through, unnoticed by Mr. Young.

No one ever notices Death. Not until it's too late.

The door neatly shut behind him. Death didn't bother to lock it.

Seconds later, two small human shapes, shorter and much more mortal, passed through the door. One brandished its index finger and marched forwards.

"Upstairs," it said. The other one sighed and followed behind.

Madame Tracy and Shadwell were not as omnipresent as Death, but Mr. Young did not see them pass through. Perhaps it was ineffable.

- - - - - -

Adam closed the phone shut. He looked tired. Those infinite eyes were dark with energy. The phone sat in his hand, for a long, slow moment. Crowley made to take it back, and then the device exploded. Loudly. The sharp smell of brimstone and the cool scent of mist and clouds filled the air.

The boy stared at the empty space in his hand. There was a bit of ash scattered in his palm. He brushed it off.

"Sorry," he said to Crowley.

"Don't worry about it," the demon replied. He could always get another. He didn't like the idea of Up and Down having his phone number, either. They were backwards, but they probably had caller ID.

"They're sendin' a messenger," Adam informed the room. "A mutual friend. He'll give me back my abilities."

"Everything worked out, then?" Aziraphale asked. Adam nodded. Aziraphale patted him on the shoulder. "Thank you," he said. Crowley agreed grudgingly.

"Of course," Adam replied.

"You all right?" Newt asked. It was the first thing he had said in quite a long time. Adam smiled and nodded again.

"Yeah. I'm all right."


	28. Chapter 28

Disclaimer: _Good Omens _and all the wonderful beings within do not belong to me. They belong to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, or vice versa... depends on which version of the cover you're looking at. No profit is being made, alas, I'm just having fun.

_A/N: This is my first Good Omens fic (unless you count the drabbles). There are several switches in POV, as in the book, and I've broken the whole thing up into chapters for your convenience. I've used miles and other American-isms, so bear with me please? This has also only been proofread by me, so I apologize for any daft spelling errors, etc._

Rated T for language, but it's really more of a K .

Any and all feedback will be very much appreciated. Thanks for reading!

* * *

Death took his time going upstairs. Shadwell raced right past him, oblivious. Madame Tracy saw him and took the time to chat.

"My," she said. "Are you who I think you are?"

NO, replied Death. AS A MATTER OF FACT, I AM DEATH ITSELF. The words trickled down Madame Tracy's mental pathways. Someone was walking on her grave.

"Oh, dear," she replied. "What are you doing here?" she asked.

I AM HERE TO BRING BACK THE ANTICHRIST'S POWERS.

Well, thought Madame Tracy bemusedly, someone had to do it.

- - - - - -

Shadwell ran into the room. Aziraphale saw him first. "Oh," he said. "Erm. Hello." Aziraphale still had unpleasant memories of being discorporated by the man. Luckily, Shadwell only had eyes for Adam Young.

"You! Laddie!" Adam looked at the man.

"Hi," he said pleasantly.

"Ye are a witch, and a fool witch at that! Ye cursed me, and now I'll tak my revenge," Shadwell uttered, still pointing at Adam.

"No, I'm not," Adam said reasonably. "You're just rememb'ring somethin'," he explained, for what must've been the seventh or eighth time that day. "It all happened." The Them added their own voices to Adam's.

"He's telling the truth," Pepper said.

"It's okay," Wensleydale said.

"Really," Brian finished. They looked at the man expectantly.

Shadwell tried to wrap his brain around this. "Reet. I forgot, and then I remembered. That's a likely story, laddie."

"Please," Aziraphale cut in, "can we save this all for later? There's ah, something very important about to happen."

Anathema sighed in relief. Thank you, Aziraphale, she thought. Let's get this done and over with.

Death came in, then, followed by Madame Tracy.

- - - - - -

What happened next is very hard to put into normal words, and even harder to explain to anyone who isn't Aziraphale, Crowley, Death, or the Antichrist.

Basically it can be said that for a brief moment Adam was standing in front of them, and then he wasn't, and he wasn't Adam either, and then he was back again and he was Adam again, but not really.

Told you it was confusing.


	29. Chapter 29

Disclaimer: _Good Omens _and all the wonderful beings within do not belong to me. They belong to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, or vice versa... depends on which version of the cover you're looking at. No profit is being made, alas, I'm just having fun.

_A/N: This is my first Good Omens fic (unless you count the drabbles). There are several switches in POV, as in the book, and I've broken the whole thing up into chapters for your convenience. I've used miles and other American-isms, so bear with me please? This has also only been proofread by me, so I apologize for any daft spelling errors, etc._

Rated T for language, but it's really more of a K .

Any and all feedback will be very much appreciated. Thanks for reading!

* * *

THERE YOU GO, Death said. YOU'RE BACK TO NORMAL.

"Not normal," Adam replied, "but I guess I'm not human anymore."

NO, YOU'RE NOT.

"Darn," said Adam. He took a deep breath. The aura was back in full force, pervasive and persuasive. He was the Antichrist again. The power surged through his young veins, thrilled into his old, old soul. It's not a feeling one can get used to.

"I s'pose I should get things fixed now, shouldn't I?"

"That would be nice," Pepper said. Aziraphale nodded.

"Sooner than later," Crowley added. "Please." It couldn't hurt to be polite.

- - - - - -

Adam fixed it all. He didn't even have to blink.

Crowley was mildly annoyed that the boy had so much power. Aziraphale just made a note to give Adam a lecture on responsibilities. That much potential in one person was downright dangerous. Deadly.

"That was it?" said Pepper. "Not very impressive." It hadn't been. There was no blinding light or golden glow, no angelic chorus or demonic laughter. Adam didn't even move his hands, except to scratch his nose. Pepper doubted that had been part of it.

"Oh, hush," said Madame Tracy. She looked faintly awestruck. Shadwell muttered something from the corner where he stood. Death smiled his skull-faced grin.

THAT'S ALL I NEEDED TO DO, RIGHT? he asked Adam.

"Yep," the boy replied. "Thanks. Glad you could make it here."

GLAD I COULD HELP, Death replied. He turned to leave, dark cloak billowing around his skeletal feet.

SEE YOU LATER, he added ominously.

Every mortal soul in the room quivered in inescapable fear.

- - - - - -

A mile away, a heap of ash and charred metal picked itself up and started melting back together, turning into sheets of sleek black metal and flawless glass. Within seconds the Bentley was back, shining like new.

Even farther, all the way back in Soho, a burned rare book shop miraculously reappeared, complete with pristine and precious first editions. A flat in Mayfair found itself to be a veritable greenhouse once more.

The car parked outside a small cottage in Tadfield shed its coat of rust and shook as the machinery rattled around inside, updating, fixing itself. It whispered a quiet haiku to the wet night air.

A fleet of spaceships left the Earth at a 70° angle, as quiet upon liftoff as they had been at their arrival. Hundreds of confused Tibetans were suddenly back at home in the mountains, their saffron robes clean and soft. All the nuclear reactors silently returned to their places, and international tensions decreased, as if they'd been cut with a divine knife. Piles of fallen fish, the aftermath of burning roads—these were cleared up as neatly and quickly as if they had never occurred.

Atlantis sank, and next to that lost city the Kraken slept on, oblivious. The sudden growth of rainforests in Brazil shrank down to shrubs, and then to nothing at all.

All this happened within seconds. Adam Young was just that good.


	30. Chapter 30

Disclaimer: _Good Omens _and all the wonderful beings within do not belong to me. They belong to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, or vice versa... depends on which version of the cover you're looking at. No profit is being made, alas, I'm just having fun.

_A/N: This is my first Good Omens fic (unless you count the drabbles). There are several switches in POV, as in the book, and I've broken the whole thing up into chapters for your convenience. I've used miles and other American-isms, so bear with me please? This has also only been proofread by me, so I apologize for any daft spelling errors, etc._

Rated T for language, but it's really more of a K .

Any and all feedback will be very much appreciated. Thanks for reading!

* * *

"Adam," Aziraphale said quietly. The boy, the Antichrist, the savior, now, of sorts—looked up at him, expectantly. "Thank you," Aziraphale said. 

Adam grinned. "Of course," he replied.

"You're not human anymore," Aziraphale continued. Adam made a face. "I know you know that. But it means you're going to have to be very careful from now on. The Armageddon was accidental, wasn't it?" Adam nodded. It had been an almost-accident.

"I'll be careful," he said. "Well, I'll do my best. But I dunno how good that'll be."

"Your best is good enough," Aziraphale said kindly.

"Are y'sure that I have to keep 'em?" Adam said, looking uncomfortable.

"Yes." Crowley spoke this time.

"Sorry," said Aziraphale. "But it's the only way. You shouldn't be here right now. None of us should be here, actually. But we all are and so you are, too." It made sense, in a warped sort of way.

"Darn," Adam muttered, more to himself than anything else.

In a fair world, Aziraphale thought again, this boy would have been born human.

"You've got to do it," Crowley said. "You need to stay, because if you don't, then everything will start to fall apart. Like it should have." The demon paused. "Sorry," he added, to soften the blow.

"You're protecting Earth," Aziraphale said helpfully. Adam brightened at that.

"S'pose I am, huh? Guess it'll be my job now. Like you and Crowley."

Aziraphale smiled. "Yes."

Adam Young, the Antichrist, and the Protector of the world (of sorts) turned to talk to his childhood companions. They talked excitedly, forgetting the presence of the adults in the room. Children, even immortal ones, will be children.

- - - - - -

"There's something missing here," Crowley said to Aziraphale. He gestured to the rather full room. The Them, Anathema, Newt, Shadwell, Madame Tracy. "They still remember," Crowley said. "They haven't left yet." That was how the trouble had first manifested. The remembering.

"I thought I'd let 'em choose whether they wanted to remember or not," Adam said, breaking off from his conversation with the Them. "Last time, it wasn't fair. I got rid of all their memories. So this time I'll let 'em choose."

Crowley nodded. Fair enough.

Aziraphale frowned. "Really," he began, "you should make sure everyone forgets." Adam gave him a good long look.

"If they talked, who do you think would listen?"

"No one," Aziraphale admitted. "Well. I suppose there's not really a problem, then." But if the Higher Ups got wind of this… Aziraphale would probably get transferred back up to Heaven, at the very least. No more Earth, no more Crowley. "Though I don't think the authorities are going to like it," he added, as a last effort.

"I'd have to erase _your_ memories, too," Adam said. "Wouldn't be fair to just leave you and no one else." Aziraphale gave in. Crowley bit his lip. He hadn't thought of the authorities hearing about it. But it'd be hard for them to sway Adam, especially now. A few mortals with uncanny knowledge—it couldn't hurt. Too much.

"I trust you all," Aziraphale said. Newt nodded in acknowledgement, as did Anathema. The Them seemed to be preoccupied in a discussion. Shadwell was firmly denying that anything out of the ordinary was happening, and Madame Tracy stood beside him, watching on calmly.

"Well," said Adam. "Let's finish things up."

Some chose to remember. Some chose to forget. Adam took the latter aside, and touched two fingers to their foreheads, wiping their minds of all those troublesome events. Aziraphale escorted them to the door, and made sure they found their way home safely.

Those who forgot would never remember.

Those who remembered would remember forever.


	31. An Epilogue of Sorts

Disclaimer: _Good Omens _and all the wonderful beings within do not belong to me. They belong to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, or vice versa... depends on which version of the cover you're looking at. No profit is being made, alas, I'm just having fun.

_A/N: This is my first Good Omens fic (unless you count the drabbles). There are several switches in POV, as in the book, and I've broken the whole thing up into chapters for your convenience. I've used miles and other American-isms, so bear with me please? This has also only been proofread by me, so I apologize for any daft spelling errors, etc._

Rated T for language, but it's really more of a K .

Any and all feedback will be very much appreciated. Thanks for reading!

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Crowley and Aziraphale walked the mile back to the Bentley, turning down Mr. Young's bemused offers of a ride. It was there at the side of the road, waiting for them like an old friend. Crowley touched it with a finger, just to make sure it was real, and then laughed happily and opened the door for Aziraphale. He even put a tape in the player—ostensibly Tchaikovsky, though it turned out to be just another metamorphosed Best of Queen tape. Adam had kept every single detail of the car. 

"What to do now?" Aziraphale asked him, as they started the journey back home.

"I think it's all done," Crowley replied. "For now, at least." Everything was always just for now.

"We thought that the last time," Aziraphale said. "But I think Adam knows better."

"Does he know enough to keep it safe?" Crowley asked, taking his hands off the wheel to turn up the volume. Aziraphale wasn't sure what Crowley meant by 'it.' He said as much to the demon.

"You know. This. Everything." Crowley waved a hand. "The world. The well-being, or, thanks to me, lack thereof." Aziraphale nodded.

"Oh. Well. You can never really know if anyone can do that." He thought for a moment, and sighed. "Not even Him."

"_Ineffable, you know_," Crowley quoted, smirking.

"It's true," the angel protested. "It's all ineffable, in the end."

"Perhaps," replied the demon. "But this isn't the end yet."

"No," agreed Aziraphale. He wasn't sure where Crowley was going with this.

"So let's do the Ritz," Crowley said, grinning. Aziraphale didn't see the connection, but he'd never turn down an invitation.

Crowley floored it, and they were back in London before they knew it. Soho never looked so welcoming. Crowley drove past Aziraphale's book shop, idling just long enough for the angel to get a really good look at it, before he sped over to the Ritz. The whole affair had taken less than six hours, really, but Crowley was dying (not that he could) for a nice wine and some quiet time.

They didn't have a reservation, but then again, they never had. The two were seated quickly, and Crowley ordered the most extravagant wine he could find. Aziraphale reminded himself to take home some bread to feed the ducks.

"I was thinking," Crowley began, after the waitress had poured them glasses of water and wine (though not water into wine, which would have been quite amusing), "that maybe we could move."

"We?" Aziraphale asked, wineglass halfway to his lips. He brought it up the rest of the way and took a sip.

"Yeah," Crowley said. "I don't know about you, but I could get away from this lot." Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. "I sssaw a listing for a cottage in the South Downs the other day," Crowley blurted out. Shit. He hadn't drank enough for this, it seemed. He knew Aziraphale would say yes, but… Crowley picked up his glass and drained half of it, much to Aziraphale's irritation.

"And?" The angel was being frustratingly dense.

"And I was thinking, uh, maybe we could live there. For a while. It'd be peaceful, y'know?" Crowley really hadn't intended to bring this up until much later, but he'd thought that after the whole thing it'd be easier.

Aziraphale looked at him for a long moment that really was a long moment. "I'd love to," he said, smiling.

"Really?" For all his confidence that Aziraphale would agree, Crowley was still surprised.

"Of course, my dear boy. I'll lock up the shop, or maybe relocate. I could use a vacation, after all."

Crowley smiled. "Brilliant."

"Do you think London will do all right without us?" Aziraphale asked thoughtfully.

"I think it'll do just fine," replied Crowley. Aziraphale smiled, and dinner continued. The food wasn't anything special, but it tasted wonderful. The wine was endless (Aziraphale's doing) and the bill remarkably cheap (that one was Crowley's). All in all, it really was a very nice evening.

And Death, strolling peacefully through Berkeley Square, stopped for a moment and tilted his head. Listening.

I COULD HAVE SWORN I HEARD A NIGHTINGALE, he said to the pigeon beside him. It squawked something unintelligible, and Death smiled.

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_Thank you for reading! Please leave a review and tell me what you think-- I've put a lot of effort into this story, it'd be brilliant to get some feedback._


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